Obstruction
by ultimateform14
Summary: Nick is arrested after performing a heroic action that the law takes issue with. Grissom, Sara, and Lady Heather look for a way to help him while Catherine and Greg examine the circumstances of a dead man whose body was left in a ventilation shaft.
1. The Desert

**Apologies for the following mondo-sized author's introduction...**

** I never really watched CSI while it was growing. I caught glimpses of it every now and then. I'd be at someone's house and it would be on TV in the background. I'd get glued to it watching. I never knew much about the characters, other than the names Sara, Nick, Catherine, and Grissom. Didn't even know it took place in Las Vegas.**

** Recently, one of my brothers was talking to me about episode – that I now know is called _The Unusual Suspect_ – where a twelve-year-old confesses to murder. Coincidentally (if you believe in such things; I don't) it happened to be on a couple of days later. I burned away my day of sleep before work watching it, and the other three episodes recorded on my DVR. One of those episodes was _Pirates of the Third Reich_, which included the fantastic character, Lady Heather. Since I used to write FanFiction all the time when I was younger, and I've recently become interested in it again, I thought, _Well, why the hell not?_**

** So, I started watching other episodes and pieced this little story together. Thankfully, coming up with a case wasn't (as hard) as I thought it was going to be. A special thanks goes to some of the other great CSI story writers I've been reading for the past month or more...**

** And about my _Assassin's Creed_ story, I apologize for the lack of updates. I have no intention of leaving the story unfinished, because I hate it when I'm reading something and it's never complete. But my humble opinion is that the _Assassin's Creed_ franchise is skipping down a path to the bottom of a hill from which it is getting harder and harder to see it ever returning from. Not that it couldn't happen, I just don't know how...**

** All the best characters – in and out of the Animus – are now dead or out of focus. All the mystery and intrigue the series used to offer up in spades – you know, the kind that has you analyzing every wall in the game, looking for a clue – is gone. The story in the actual game series has completely and criminally wasted its once-insane amount of potential. Fans tend to do better work with the franchises they're fans of in many cases...**

** ...but in Ubisoft's case, this is just getting unbearable. The choices they're making aren't just a little misstep, here or there. They're blatantly, obviously stupid, with less and less redeeming value or possibility for each new one they reveal. So it's a little hard to get in the mood to work on an AC-related story.**

** That, and I've written the story all the way through several times. It was almost a fifty-chapter affair when I did the first draft of it. I had an editor who worked with me to trim back a bit on the angsty internal monologues and sex/sex act scenes, and that got it down to the thirties. Then I changed directions with it over and over. I'm trying to make it a little less... well, angsty and sexual. But I just can't escape viewing the characters in it that way. Sorry, but Desmond and Lucy are... well, sexy, each in their own ways. And Desmond, from whose point of the view the story is told, is quite angsty. And there's so little character development for the modern cast. Particularly Desmond, who's the main focus of it.**

** Which is unfortunate, because it's easier to relate to them as people (being from our time period) than it is to the ancestor characters. But anyway... I do have an actual plot for it, so it will be done eventually.**

** In the meantime, I've been on a CSI kick, so I've been working on this after reading several talented authors here on FanFiction. It's a two-part, currently. I might split it up into three. I've already written the entire first part, so I'll just post it.**

** Hopefully, everyone enjoys it!**

* * *

Another day, another dollar. What a tired old phrase.

And yet, it was exactly the thing on Nick Stokes' mind when he wearily drug himself into the car he was driving. A call had come in from a distraught sounding man. His girlfriend was missing and there was blood all over his apartment. But no body.

Nick hated these types of cases. They were always so depressing. And usually, it turned out the person who seemed the most upset about it was really the killer.

To think about it now, though, he chuckled when he remembered what Sara had said on the matter. _"We all know the killer is usually the person closest to the victim. Why don't we just skip all the crap and arrest everyone the victim knows until we get a confession?"_

Not exactly how Nick thought on it, but still... he couldn't dismiss the thought that it made some kind of sense, given the pattern. Except for those cases when the murderers turned out to be someone totally out of the blue. Which did happen a fair few number of times in this line of work.

As the police squadron cars he would be riding with pulled out of the parking lot in the pre-conceived order – with Nick falling in line somewhere towards the center – he wondered just what HAD attracted him to this line of work. It wasn't usually a pleasant job, it had taken a lot of work to get into it, and he'd almost been killed more than once in the courses of crime scene investigating. Not that he would trade it away for anything in the world, but still...

The drive out to the desert felt long. While the lights and other cars passed, Nick listened to the radio – something he didn't do very often anymore. Tuning through to find a station with something he recognized took quite a while. But when he finally did, he sang along and bobbed his head to the beat. It was a song he'd frequently overheard Catherine listening to, although she didn't seem to particularly like it. Thinking about Catherine reminded him why he still worked as a CSI. The people he worked with...

The cars rounded out into the edge of the desert. The residence of the 9-1-1 caller was on the outskirts of town.

_If you're lucky enough to live in Vegas, who'd want to live this far out of town in Vegas?_ wondered Nick.

When HE'D been shopping for homes there, the outskirts had never been anything he'd even considered. As his car came up on the edge of a bridge, he shook his head with a smile to think of all the weird houses he'd toured there...

It was then that a scream suddenly reached his ears. "Help me! Please! Anybody!"

Nick slammed on the breaks. The car began to skid. Dust from the dirty roads flew up everywhere. Behind him, he heard several honks, and watched for a moment while the other cars ground to a halt behind him.

But he didn't waste time asking them if they were okay. Someone, somewhere nearby needed help. Surely, they'd overheard the cry, too. Surely, they'd be right behind him while he hurtled himself from the driver's seat of his car.

"Please...! PLEASE! Don't do this...!"

His head jerked to the right automatically. The screaming was coming from... underground? No, that couldn't be right... Under the bridge...

"Stokes! What's going on?!" came the demanding call of an officer behind him.

"HELP ME!" came the cry again.

Two of the three officers behind Nick joined him in drawing their guns and moving to the side of the bridge; the voice of the third radioing to the cars ahead faded as Nick came to the guard rail. With stunning determination, he went to his knees behind it and raised both arms over the edge.

Beneath them, just outside the realm of the shadow cast by the bridge as the sun set on the other side of it, there was a tall, blonde-haired man taking slow but deliberate steps towards a woman tied by the hands and laid out on a large, flat-surfaced boulder. Whatever he was saying in response to her crying out was lost in the rushing wind. Nick's eyes widened when the man's arm lifted and the knife glinted in his right hand. He reacted without another thought.

His gun made three loud banging sounds as his finger pulled the trigger back the same number of times. Head jerking back, blood spattered out of the man's back and into the sand just moments before his body toppled to join it.

Nick took a deep breath as he raised himself back to his feet and lowered his gun behind the guard rail. The woman resumed her calling out for help, and the officers were skidding down the sand hills towards her. He smiled...

_Click._

Nick jolted as his hands were forced behind him by the officer to his right. He looked up to meet the officer's eyes with a mixture of shock and confusion he could feel in every muscle of him.

"Nicholas Stokes..." sighed the officer with apparent regret, "...I'm afraid I have to place you under arrest... for the murder of an unarmed... civilian."

Nick's lips parted the very slightest of distances, and his eyes widened with the realization of this information.


	2. Due Process

Greg yawned when the elevator of the large apartment complex reached the floor he was looking for. His eyes were scratchy with the sleep matter left behind by his mostly-restless night. Case after case had prevented the CSIs from actually getting home, and just when he'd thought he was in the clear for it...

...he wasn't. A call came in just as he was getting ready to climb out of his car from Grissom: a dead body discovered by a harried housekeeper stuffed in a large ventilation shaft.

The elevator doors slid open, and to Greg's left, the crime scene was almost immediate. Just ahead of him was David, ducking beneath the yellow police tape. Greg sighed, and stepped forward with hesitation towards the tape. He was working with Warrick this case, and he could already hear the sounds of the cameras clicking and Warrick directing the officers around the evidence as he rounded the corner.

"–oming soon," came the end of Warrick's sentence.

"Who or what is coming soon?" asked Greg.

"Ah, there you are, man!" exclaimed Warrick.

He looked more frustrated. "So..." sighed Greg, "I take it this one's not gonna be easy." He knelt down and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. "I mean, judging by the look on your face..."

"Naw, it doesn't look too cut and dry. The vic's male, presumably in his forties. Was found by a housekeeper when she smelled something funny coming out of the vents." Warrick pointed in the direction of the decomposing body. "See?"

Greg jumped back slightly at the sight of the two feet poking out of the vent. "Whoa! What the hell?"

But Warrick merely nodded. "Yeah. Get used to it, man. Now that you're ranking, it's only gonna get weirder from here."

"Thanks for the encouragement," Greg sarcastically replied. "Where shall I start?"

"How 'bout the perimeter? I'm already working on the body's immediate surroundings."

"Got it."

* * *

The sunlight drifted lazily in through Gil Grissom's office. Behind the desk, he sat with his back stiffly straightened. In his hands was a stack of papers, stapled together in the upper left corner. His lip kept twitching upwards in a gesture of approval as his eyes scanned the words on the pages – words that turned to sentences, then to paragraphs... and eventually formed a full report.

Sara was leaning back comfortably in the chair in front of him. She sighed wearily and watched Grissom for any signs of his reaction to her handiwork. The last case had been simple enough: a body found dangling from a construction site. Turned out the victim had been collateral damage in a personal brawl between two others. As they sat there looking over the reports, the two were on their way to prison for the murder.

Finally, she just couldn't take it anymore. "So...?"

Grissom looked up, and raised on eyebrow. "What?"

"How's the report?" pressed Sara. She leaned forward in her seat, expectantly. "Any good, or what's the deal?"

"So far it looks VERY good, Sara."

Her mouth seemed to fold upward in an involuntary smile. As it often did – for positive or negative reasons – whenever Grissom had something to say about the situation at hand.

He shuffled the papers on end and laid them out across his desk. "So, what's the status on the victim's family?" He folded his hands and rested them on the desk. "Have they been notified?"

"Brass is on his way back from their home. He wanted to handle it personally. One of them was a good friend of his daughter's when she was still here."

"Hoping to resolve some personal matters, then," guessed Grissom. He leaned downward and yanked open one of the drawers. "Just like Jim, it seems."

"Yeah..." Sara watched as his hands disappear into the drawer with some curiosity that manifested as furrowed eyebrows. "Never misses a chance..."

"Never," repeated Grissom. "Want some chocolate?" He withdrew his hand with a bar of candy in it. He held it out to her with a questioning movement of his own eyebrows. "There's no meat in it, I promise."

Sara's smiled widened a bit. "No, Grissom, thanks. I'm good."

"Oh, I know," he replied, stripping back one layer of the wrapping with two busy fingers. "One more question before you go for the day."

"Yes?"

"Have you–"

"–excuse me, sir."

Sara looked over her shoulder with minor annoyance. It was Hodges. What now?

"What is it?" asked Grissom, setting his chocolate bar down.

"There's someone here to see you."

"To see me?"

"That is correct," answered Hodges.

"Wow..." said Grissom while he rose to his feet. "Is it my mother?"

Hodges chuckled. "Nope. I don't think so..."

Sara sighed, and got up to follow them out. The sunlight was starting to feel brighter than it should be as they maneuvered the halls. Who could possibly come and specifically request to see Grissom?

The answer came in the form of a tall, red-headed woman standing by the front desk with her arms folded and a dark purple bag hanging off her shoulder. Sara's eyes narrowed.

Grissom continued towards her with his arms out. "Heather!" he exclaimed.

"Grissom," she replied simply, though she returned his brief embrace with a smile.

"It's been too long," continued the latter. "Where have you been?"

"All over," answered Lady Heather. "But, I was coming through, so I thought I'd stop and see how things were going here."

Sara sighed, and hoped, for once, that she was fading into the background successfully. Hodges shot her a knowing grin on his way past her and back down the hallways they'd come from. She exhaled prominently and approached the desk slowly. She was not interested in seeing Lady Heather. She had hoped Grissom wouldn't be, either, the next time she came around. But no such luck.

_Of course not..._ she thought bitterly.

* * *

Greg's camera flashed over a few faded footprints by the doorway. So far, there seemed to be almost nothing to connect this person to the murder. Whoever this guy was, he left no fingerprints or trace of any kind behind him. It was starting to get to Greg, and his face was flushing a dark red color as an outward indication.

"Chill, Greg," came Warrick's voice from behind him. "We'll find something, somewhere..."

"Yeah," offered Greg with an exhale of annoyance. "Eventually."

"It's all part of the job," said Warrick. "Like I said, you'll get used to it. You like the field, right?"

"Yeah, I love it," Greg rushed to reassure. "It's not that, it's just... there's never been a case like this. Not even since I got into DNA."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Warrick ducked out of sight behind the victim's legs. "There's usually something..."

"...somewhere..." finished Greg.

The sudden sounds of a disgruntled woman's fast and irritated speech reached their ears. "Excuse me... Excuse me, I live here! What's going on?! Where is my husband?"

The short, blonde woman burst around the corner with two exasperated officers in tow.

"Are you the ones blocking me from my home?" she demanded sharply of Greg.

"No, ma'am. My name is Greg Sanders. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Your home is part of our investigation."

"In fact, it's the whole scene, at the moment," added Warrick, coming back into view as he stood up again.

"C-crime scene?" stuttered the woman. "Crime?! What crime?!"

Greg's eyes angled downward, and he blinked a couple of times. "Ma'am, you said this is where you lived, right?"

"That is correct. Just what has happened here, young man?"

Greg and Warrick exchanged momentary glances. This was always the worst part of the job. Telling the victim's loved ones that they had lost someone dear to them.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you that... we found a body in your ventilation shaft in the living room," Warrick finally continued. "I spoke to the housekeeper who called it in and... she... says it's... your husband."

Greg flinched when the woman's eyes opened wider. She drew in a few shaky, rapid breaths. Both of her purple-clad hands came up to her bright red lips. Her gasping mouth disappeared behind them. The first of many tears shed from her eyes and trailed down her cheek.

"W-what? Archibald is..."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Warrick said softly.

At this, the woman began to lose her footing. As she slid downward, Greg did as well, his hands supportively under each of her arms and shoulders.

"Oh, my God..." She buried her face in her hands completely. "Oh, my God. No! No..." And she looked up again, her eyes slightly wild. "Delora... Where is Delora?"

"Who?" asked Greg gently.

"My housekeeper. Our housekeeper! The one who found him, where is she?"

"She's giving a statement, miss," answered Warrick. "If you want to step outside into the hall, you can find her and talk to her when she's done giving her report to the officers."

"Oh," sobbed the woman. "Oh, God... Oh... Alright... Alright, I'll go and find her. Oh, thank you, young man. Er... Mr. Sanders."

For Greg had just helped her to her feet. "Please, ma'am: call me Greg."

"Greg, yes," she answered, and wiped away at her eyes, where her makeup was beginning to wear off. "Thank you."

She turned, and walked out into the hallway. Greg watched her go for a moment, and could see the elderly housekeeper trying to explain the situation to the police. The victim's wife approached, and as soon as the housekeeper – Delora – saw her, they embraced wearily. Greg caught faint bits of what they were saying to each other in the few seconds he listened before turning back into the apartment with a grit of his teeth.

"I hate that," he whispered.

"I know. Always makes me wonder why I didn't just stick to waiting tables."

Greg shrugged. "Not sure."

* * *

There were perpetually endless tears running down the side of Nick's face when he lifted his tired head from the table it was resting on in the interrogation room. The last person he really wanted to see coming through the door with the paper brown bags to take his clothes was exactly who came through.

Catherine.

He heaved one involuntary sob. "I'm sorry..." was all he could say. "He was gonna kill her..."

She sighed, and walked to the side of the table. Her eyes were determinedly trained on his shoulder as she approached. She set the bags down on the edge of the table, and slid them across with one finger.

"Catherine..." he begged in a broken voice.

She snapped her fingers, as if to hurry him along.

He sighed, and shook his head, but his hands went up to the back of his shirt, and slowly began pulling it off of himself.

She held the bag open for him, and scribbled on the notepad – his name, and a description of the outfit he was wearing. He knew she'd be filling in the other blanks later on, such as what was in his pockets or if he was smuggling any kind of weaponry in through his clothes or shoes. He shuddered slightly with the cold air hitting his torso, and rubbed one hand on the side of his arm.

Her hand holding a swab suddenly came into his blurry vision. He sighed, and opened his mouth so she could take his DNA. Her lower lip shook.

"Catherine, you know it wasn't murder, right?" he tried. "You know I didn't... didn't kill him, technically...?"

She shrugged, but still did not speak. Instead, she slid the next paper bag over to him.

He closed his eyes for just a moment. His heart was throbbing a lot more than he thought it would if he was ever arrested in a circumstance like this...

But he still leaned down to his shoes and tried to steady his hands enough to undo them. He thought he saw Catherine lift a hand to her face in the upper corner of his eye while he struggled. He wanted to imagine she was brushing tears away, too. But he didn't look up. His whole body felt cold, and endlessly shaky. How could this really be happening...?

He finally slid out of his shoes and socks. With an attempt at a steadying deep breath, he dropped them into the bags on the table. Catherine wrapped them up in continued silence.

Nick clenched his fists weakly for a moment before wrapping his fingers around the waistband of his jeans. Once again, he closed his eyes for just one moment... undid the button, and zipped down the fly.

They fell to his feet by themselves. He forced his line of vision upwards while he stepped out of them and slid them over to Catherine with one foot. When he again lowered his head, he turned it to the left, looking at her through the corners of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he tried for the last time. "I'm sorry I disappointed you, Catherine. I just had to do it. I couldn't let him..."

She finally looked at him. Her eyes appraised his form for a moment. The smile that touched her face wasn't even half a second, and it didn't reach her nose, let alone her eyes. While she folded the top of the paper bag up, he gave in, and let his head droop.

She raised the camera. "Hands."

He held them up – palms in first, and then out – trying to keep them still. Catherine's eyes were hidden behind the camera lens. He could see that her lips were pressed tightly together.

The folded, orange jumpsuit came down on the table with a weak but audible thump. Unlike when she processed most people, Catherine did not follow the formalities of the protocol by asking him to "please, put this on", as she normally would. He didn't know if he should take that as an encouragement or not.

It didn't matter. The fabric of it conforming to his body didn't make him feel any better. But fortunately, it didn't make him feel any worse. THAT, at least, was an encouragement...

"Face me, please."

Nick raised his weary head, yet again. She stood back, with her weight on one foot and the camera that would be used to take his mugshot in her hands.

He blinked away some of the tears, and used his fingers to brush away what was left. He still knew his face would be red when the pictures came out... When his co-workers saw them...

The flash of the camera hurt his eyes, and he blinked several times more when she had finished.

"Turn," she commanded simply.

Simply, but with a little more gentleness than she had displayed thus far.

And he did. The camera flash was still hard on his eyes, even from the side. He blinked less, though...

Next, the fingerprints. She laid out his ten card – blank, for the time being – and retrieved the ink roll. She flicked her hair back a bit with a small movement of her head...

"Palms up."

"I know how it works..." he said meekly.

For some reason, her mouth muscles tightened closed even more at that.

He flinched. "Sorry."

But she didn't look up. Just stared at his palms while she rolled over them with the ink."Alright, go ahead."

He pressed down on the card, left first. And then the right on the other card. She slid them with the very tip of her finger into one of the bags, and left a towel there for him.

While he cleaned up, she took the all the bags in one hand, the notebook under one arm, and the camera hung by its strap from her neck.

"Catherine..." he whispered.

She didn't look back when she seized the towel he held out to her with force. The door shut behind her seconds later, and through the glass windows in the wall, he saw her storming away with straight, determined steps. Her clicking footsteps echoed in the room.

The weight of it all seemed to fall on his shoulders like full bags of sand. He sank back into his chair and put his head back down on the table. Without Catherine there... and now with the possibility of what she could be thinking about him running in his mind... he gave in, and let the waves roll over him. His shoulders heaved, and his body grew weak. He thought he'd done something good... for a helpless woman who was in trouble, and couldn't help herself. And he had been sure Catherine, of all people, would understand. And maybe even be grateful to him for his actions, and what he had hoped was the heart he was showing behind them.

But perhaps not...

* * *

"Alright, Mrs. Gracie..." sighed Warrick, as they began to clear the rest of their things out. "What can you tell us about the situation?"

"Um..." She sniffled once, and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Can we... start with your name?" suggested Greg tentatively.

"Oh, yes... Excellent idea. Uh, it's Ginger."

"Ginger," confirmed Warrick, writing it down in his notebook. "And where, may I ask, were you during this?"

"I was vacationing," she answered. "My sisters and I... we try to get away at least once a year, all together."

"Oh? Where were you all going?" asked Greg.

"Not 'going' – 'gone.' We were actually returning home today." She indicated sadly in the direction of the vent. Her voice rose slightly in pitch. "It was our... our anniversary today."

Greg and Warrick shared another uncomfortable glance. But Warrick pressed on, "Mrs. Gracie, where, exactly, were you vacationing?"

"Oregon," she sighed, and wiped away a few tears. "Our grandmother owned a home out there before she passed away last year. She left it to the oldest of us. Gloria. Gloria invited us all out there."

"I see..." said Warrick softly. His eyes turned to the left and fell on her luggage. "Mrs. Gracie... I'm awfully sorry, but we're gonna need to take your prints and some DNA. To rule you out as a suspect, you know..."

She nodded. "Certainly, certainly. Whatever helps... I need to make some arrangements for a hotel room."

"That's correct," confirmed Greg. "This is still an active scene, in case we need to come back and search for more evidence."

"I understand," exhaled Ginger.

"Then, if you'd like to come down to PD? We'll take care of everything there..." said Warrick.

With a nod, she pulled her phone out and began dialing something into it.

When his eyes fell on it, it suddenly occurred to Greg to ask. "Mrs. Gracie, could we please have your cell phone number before we all leave? In case we need to get in touch with you?"

"Certainly," she replied. "Uh... oh, there. That's it, there on the fridge. I left it for Delora. In case of emergencies."

_Like these_, Greg mused, melancholy. "Thank you very much, ma'am. We'll be in touch."

"If you have any further questions, feel free to speak to the officers that are still here," added Warrick. "We'll see you at PD."

"See you there."

And with that, they left. Once they had reached the elevator doors and they had shut behind them, Greg yawned again.

"Okay... I'll have the copies of the housekeeper's statements sent over. We can collect them from Brass' office, probably. I told Doc Robbins to call you on this one when he finishes with the autopsy."

Greg's phone buzzed against his chest through his shirt. He frowned, and fumbled with his vest, trying to get at it.

"We'll probably have to question the housekeeper, ourselves. Get a feel for her, you know?" Warrick went on.

"Yeah, yeah." Greg flipped open the phone, and saw it was a text message from Catherine.

_Nicky's been arrested. Shot a man out in the desert. Just so you know when you get back to PD..._

Greg's eyes widened, and his phone almost fell from his hand. He did lose a little balance, though, and caught himself on the elevator wall.

"Do you think the wife might know someone who wanted him dead?" asked Warrick, fingers flipping through the notebook.

"Warrick..."

"'Cause she seemed pretty upset, if you ask me."

"Warrick?"

He looked up, and his expression changed to match what Greg was sure his own was. "What now?"

"It's Nick..."

"What about him?"

"He's been arrested. He killed someone..."


	3. Stir

The same underlying hum he was so used to went on continuously in his ears. He had laid his head down on his hands. The cuffs were cool, and the feel of them on his cheek was comforting. He sighed and blinked twice. There was a pool of his tears forming beneath his eyes. What was he doing there? How did things turn out like this...?

The door opened, and he looked up. It was Catherine again. But this time, she was flanked by Brass, who looked (surprisingly) less stoic than she did.

He straightened himself, and tried to suck back some of the emotional build-up in him from his crying.

They seated themselves in the chairs opposite him. He turned his face down. For a moment, no one spoke at all. Then...

"Here, Nicky."

Nick looked up. It was Brass, and he held out a box of Kleenex with a tentative smile.

"Thanks," said Nick. He took a few out of the box and cleared his face up a bit with them. "Sorry, I... thought I'd be a little more composed, you know? If this sort of thing ever happened..."

Brass nodded with a slightly wider smile.

But Catherine's two nods were stony and angry. Nick knew what she was thinking, knew what she was going to say... and he pressed his lips back together as a way of steeling himself for it.

"Did you ever see something something like this happening?" She cocked her head to the side questioningly, her own lips also pressed together tightly when she finished speaking.

"Of course not!" answered Nick. How could she ask him that? "Of course I never saw this kind of thing happening. I thought I– I thought I was doing something good."

Brass sighed, and rolled his head over to the side.

"I did!" insisted Nick in mild panic. "I really did...!"

"Ah, come on, Nick. You know the law better than that," replied Brass.

"Yeah, I know the rules. I know what they are, but I still thought–"

"–thought that you could get away with murder?" questioned Catherine, her voice rising in pitch. "You thought you could get away with something like this on the grounds that you were doing something good, Nick?!"

"No, Catherine– Listen, it wasn't like that!"

"How did it go, then, Nick!"

She rose to her feet with stunning speed and leaned across the table towards him. And for some reason, he felt compelled to lean back from her. Scared...

"How did it go?" she repeated, a little gentler. "Because if you knew the rules, you knew the law still considered him – whatever the situation – a victim. He hadn't done her any harm, yet."

Nick's jaw dropped, and his eyes stung a bit. "He was going to! Ask the other officers, Catherine! He was going to!"

"We know, Nick..." interjected Brass reassuringly. "We know you did the right thing. By your conscious, anyway..." He stood up and began to pace, his hand running through his hair frustratedly. "But, unfortunately... even though we all know what woulda happened to that woman, if you hadn't intervened... that's just not how the courts work."

When he affixed Nick with his gaze, Nick felt compelled to lean back a little farther.

Catherine shook her head. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. "Nicky... I'm sorry that that woman was in the position she was in. But do you know what could happen to you? If you're convicted of murder?"

Nick stared at his hands. Trembling against his cuffs. They rattled along with him...

"I'll never see you again," Catherine answered her own question.

Silence. Nick looked up, and was momentarily self-repulsed by the expression she was looking at him with.

"I'll never see you again," she repeated. And she sat back into her chair. "None of us will ever see you again. You could go away for life, or... or worse." She leaned forward, and let her head fall into one of her own hands, elbow propped up on the table.

There was another silence in the room for what felt like an eternity, as her words brought on the effects of something Nick imagined was similar to claustrophobia coming down on him.

She'd never see him again. None of them would. If he was convicted of murder, depending on the severity, he would never see any of his only real friends and family ever again.

He closed his eyes and imagined Warrick. Tall, strong, funny Warrick. Nick smiled when he remembered some of their cases together. And how they'd first met...

Then came Grissom. Ever so bizarre, and oblivious to anything in life that wasn't related to dead bodies or bugs. He thought back to his first time sitting in the lunch room with Grissom. He'd been upset about the outcome of their case, and Grissom had consoled him with the same profoundness as always.

And Catherine. Sitting in front of him, he could smell her, and that brought back a memory neither he nor she (as far as he knew) had ever shared with anybody: their one-time rendezvous in a car wash. Where they'd kissed. Once. The one time. But it was special, and he treasured it very much.

With a deep breath, he next thought of Greg. Short, weird little Greg. Always polite, always smiling. Always ever so curious. Always changing his hair, and flirting with Sara.

Sara. The mental images of some of their times together came flowing the easiest. One time, they'd been up all day and got landed with an emergency case together. She'd kept him going through it by talking and joking with him. Another time, out in the cold, waiting while a grave was dug up so they could search it with their warrant for a transplanted liver. Or walking with her, after work, around the block. She'd taken his hat and worn it for kicks, grinning toothily the whole time... And the night they'd watched the stars...

He opened his eyes, and then leaned forward on his own hands. "What's gonna happen to me?" he asked after another moment.

"Well..." replied Brass, thoughtfully, "...if you're convicted, the murder's benign enough (as far as murders go, anyway) that you probably wouldn't get the death penalty. But there are other hitches in that possibility."

Nick swallowed. "Like what? What else did I do wrong?"

"Well, for one thing, you took a shot at two civilians," answered Catherine with a sniff. "At least, that's how the court's going to see it. It's not just possibly murder, but it's also a breach in PD protocols about handling situations where weapons and civilians are present in the same scenario."

She shook her head, and leaned back against her chair.

Brass spoke up next. "And, for another... you halted a police squad without what the courts would call 'due cause'."

Nick began to shake again in the next momentary silence that followed. "I'm sorry," he said once again. "I'm sorry, I really am... I couldn't do it. I couldn't let her die. When I saw her like that, I just..." He looked up at Catherine, pleading. "I knew I had the power to save her, and I just couldn't let her die."

Catherine's face hardened as she retook her feet.

"I'm sorry..." Nick whispered, and returned his head to rest on his hands, his shoulders wracking again.

* * *

Catherine gulped, then leaned across the table and placed a hand on his. He looked up, and it made her sad to see the hopefulness there, brought out just by this small gesture of hers. "Nicky... I want you to know, I really am proud of what you did... for that woman." A tear came out of her eye. "I really am, but..." she paused, and brushed it away, "I care more about what happens to you than her."

Nick stared. His eyes flickered between hers. Her eyes did the same with his.

She took the folders from the table suddenly. Just as she reached the door...

"Come see me."

She stopped, and turned... and stared... He forced a weak smile, and she returned the favor equally as weakly.

Then, before she could completely lose her composure, she turned and walked... with a slowed pace, for his sake... out into the hall.

As she walked, she took a deep breath. Her steps got even more hesitant as she went. Eventually, she stopped completely. The feeling of the folder that contained Nick's case file became prominent. Like it was burning her skin. She looked down at it, and took another deep breath.

When she heard the faint sounds of Grissom's voice, she blinked her prickling eyes and headed briskly in his direction.

* * *

For what it was worth, Sara didn't think it was TOO sad that she was actually beginning to be interested by the style magazine she was flipping through. It lay on the front desk's edge, and it was all about home decorations. It wasn't something she was terribly interested in during her day-to-day life, but it made for some nice pictures. And most importantly, it helped to drown out the conversation to her immediate right.

On the page she was looking at, there was an old, Victorian bed set. Or, at least, it was being advertised as such. It didn't really look like one. Sara'd never been a big fan of those types of things. They seemed depressing to her.

So she turned the page to the next display, and found it a little more to her liking. The colors were a lighter shade. Through the window, she could see a beach background. The thin curtains by the windows and surrounding the huge bed were angled outward, as if they were blowing in the wind. The sliding glass door to the right of the page was open.

The next page was going for a more middle class... or, as Sara liked to call it, "realistic"... approach. There was a double bed there, but it was decorated with a simpler quilt. The sheet hung down visibly below the bed's edge, and it was just a plain white. The quilt reminded her of her foster mother's room. That wasn't a terribly pleasant memory, but it was still a nice picture, anyway...

It was Catherine, announcing her arrival, that brought Sara back to the present moment. "Gil..."

To Sara's right, both Grissom and Lady Heather turned towards her, approaching with a folder raised in one hand. Attention immediately perked, Sara watched as Catherine came closer, waving the folder in the process...

But it was still surprising when she shoved the folder into his hands, and then just as quickly gripped the edge of the desk with both hands tightly. Sara's eyes widened a bit to see Catherine's shoulders were shaking.

"What's this?" asked Grissom cautiously. He raised the folder, and peeled it open like he was tearing a sketch out of its book. "A new case?"

Catherine raised her head and eyed Grissom. "No. Not exactly. Read it. I need you to take it from me. I just– I... I don't think I-I can handle it."

Sara blinked twice. "What's going on?"

Maddeningly, nobody said anything. Grissom opened the folder and began to peruse its contents. His face was the same unhelpful, composed mask as usual. Lady Heather took two steps back and watched him patiently. Catherine steadied her breath a little.

"Grissom?" asked Sara again. "What's happening?"

And again, no answer. Grissom just raised his head and turned to Catherine. "How long ago was this?"

"This morning," she answered. There was a water dispenser next to her, and she was drawing water from it with barely controlled movements. "He stopped a police squad. Heard a woman screaming. He got out, saw the man with the knife, and... pop-pop-pop, that was it."

Grissom sighed, and closed the folder. "I see..." He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Excuse me, but can someone please tell me what we're talking about?" insisted Sara, finally.

"Oh..." Lady Heather gasped with some shock.

Sara and the other two looked up, and followed the sound of her voice.

It was the interrogation room. The latest suspect was on his way out, back to his holding cell. At first, Sara relaxed herself. The attending officer stepped out first, his arm still extended into the room.

Then, out came Brass. He looked behind himself and gestured the suspect forward.

It was the sight of the man that came through the door that made her eyes widen and her mouth fall open.

Nick. Nick came out of the interrogation room. His hands were cuffed behind his back, as per protocol for a potential murderer. His gaze was to the floor, at first, but at something Brass said, he looked up wearily. He was in a bright, orange jumpsuit. His cuffs' shaking echoed down the hallway.

Sara just stared. She stood in the middle of the hallway, as a police officer was leading her good friend towards her in handcuffs, and stared.

Nicky...

The whole world seemed to slow down.

In the rooms lining the halls, Sara was barely aware of Hodges and Wendy, overlooking something in their lab. Wendy saw first. She tapped Hodges, and he looked up.

Across the other side of the hall, Greg was in the lab, carrying his kit, having just returned from a case of his own. Doc Robbins happened to be there, reviewing notes. When he caught sight of Nick, he removed his glasses and reapplied them, as if he wasn't sure he was seeing it clearly.

As he got closer, she could make out what kind of shape Nick was in. And it wasn't good. His eyes and cheeks were red, with heavy eyelids. He was trembling from head to foot and walking slowly, even more slowly than he already appeared to be from her point of view.

As he came level with them, he looked up and met her eyes with his eyes. He inclined his head toward her once with a smile she could only imagine took most of his energy to offer. She couldn't do anything to return it. Later, she would feel guilty, she knew – but the way he was trembling had caught in her throat like a lump...

Suddenly, they were all there again. Grissom, Catherine, Greg, Robbins, Hodges, Wendy, and Lady Heather. Brass joined them last. He exhaled sadly as the officer took Nick down the rest of the hall.

Warrick came around the corner just as Nick was about to go into the hall of holding cells. When he saw Warrick, Nick stumbled forward to him. From Sara's angle, Warrick revealed nothing about how she was certain he really felt. He kept a straight face as Nick disappeared partially into his arms. He rubbed a hand up and down Nick's back for a moment, and patted it, hopefully comfortingly.

Then Nick said something to him. Sara couldn't hear it, couldn't focus enough to make it out. But she knew he was talking. His head was shaking frantically, and Warrick put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down – she could see Warrick's lips forming the word "promise".

And then, the officer took Nick's arm, and pulled lightly on him. Warrick hugged him one more time, and then he disappeared into the holding cell hall.

Sara realized she had taken a few steps forward she hadn't noticed. When the slight panic settled on her during those seconds before Nick was gone from her sight. Into the cold, dark holding cell area, all by himself...

She was alone in the small hallway between Warrick and Nick and the others behind her.

The world returned to normal speed. The usually-busy hallway had stopped moving to watch Nick go by. Sara's hands went to her head, and stopped in her hair. She looked side-to-side, and closed her eyelids. That didn't help: the images of Nick walking by, his hands restricted behind him, in the orange jumpsuit, lingered in her head.

She opened her eyes with a gasp. What was she doing here? What was happening to her?

What was happening to NICK? What had he done? Why was he just been taken down the hall at the place where he worked? In front of his co-workers and anyone else who happened to be there...

Warrick's eyes turned from the door to the hallway that had just closed behind Nick and locked onto hers. He shook his head, and scratched the back of it with a sigh that she could only see.

She looked around again and understood why Catherine was still shaking so much.

It was Nick. Nick was one of, if not the sweetest man in the world. What could he possibly have done to deserve something like this? She tried not to re-imagine his lips turning upward in his greeting to her in such a situation. He'd looked like an overgrown little kid, scared and alone... Couldn't someone have at least cut a deal to make the whole thing easier on everyone? On him? On Nicky...?

Suddenly, it felt like the walls were coming in on her. She gave her head a little shake, trying to clear it away, but it wasn't working. The ground swayed a bit beneath her. She became sharply aware of the voices of the people going on about their days while Nick was probably settling into a cell. Still alone...

"Sara...?"

She turned feebly in the direction of the voice. It was Doc Robbins. He patted her back once.

"Sara, are you alright?" he asked worriedly.

She smiled as an automatic reaction, but she knew she wasn't really. And if she didn't get out of there, she was going to get worse.

She took one more deep breath, returned Doc's kind gesture by touching his arm for a moment... and then ran off down the hall in the opposite direction Nick had just been taken.

She was vaguely aware of her co-workers' staring as she lost the battle against her emotions, and her composure crumbled. She heard Grissom calling her name once after her faintly. But the farther she moved from them in the direction of the cool (and hopefully empty) locker room, the clearer her head got.

She was in luck when it seemed a world later that she skidded into the locker room and fell to a seated position on the bench. There was no one else there, so she allowed herself to cry about it. Fortunately, it wasn't a total breakdown.

Yet.

Thinking about Nick was not helping, but the situation he was in now was all that she could think about.

She squeezed her leg, where her hands had landed after she'd sat down.

It occurred to her she should probably have stayed to get the details from Grissom. To find out what she could do to help Nick. But after everything he'd just seen... everything they'd ALL just seen... from her reaction to this, she doubted she'd be allowed near ANY cases, let alone Nick's, for a while.

This realization that she wouldn't be able to do much for him didn't help, either.

She trusted her co-workers would get it taken care of. She knew he had to have some advantages on his side, being a CSI with a good, strong reputation. It would be alright... wouldn't it?

She exhaled sharply. The emotions were coming to her stronger. Audible sobs made it out of her as she curled her legs up so she could rest her forehead on her knees. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists to help her keep a little control. All she could see was–

Nicky...

* * *

Back in the hallway, Grissom sighed, as he and the others stared after Sara. Catherine started to go after her.

But Grissom put a hand out and gripped her shoulder.

"No," he said plainly. "I'll go. I'm trading you out with Warrick on Greg's case."

Catherine exhaled. "Thank you," she said calmly. "Greg, come on. Why don't you fill me in?"

Greg shook his head, as if he was coming back to the planet of Earth. "Oh..." he said slowly. "Oh, yes! Yeah... Sure... Come this way. Certainly..."

As he and Catherine set off down the hall towards the lab, Grissom turned to Lady Heather.

"Will you be in town for a while?"

"Definitely," she answered. "I'll be right here, in fact. It looks like you could use the help."

"I'd very much appreciate it," said Grissom, head turned suggestively to the side. "If you'll step into my office. You know where it is..."

She mimicked him with expertise, and proceeded towards Grissom's abode of employment.

"The rest of you, spread out. Here." He handed the folder containing Nick's file to Warrick. "See what you all can do." And he started walking in the locker room's direction. "I'll find Sara..."


	4. Wrong

When the door closed behind Greg and Catherine, she exhaled sharply once.

"Catherine?" tried Greg carefully.

"I'm okay..." she rushed to reassure with her usual abruptness. She shook her head once, and the smile that came on her face felt genuine enough from the inside.

But judging by the look on Greg's face, it wasn't working.

"Case," she commanded.

Greg shook himself. "Oh, yes! Here..."

She took the new folder from his hands and pried it open with more force than necessary. And after perusing its contents for a few moments, she looked up incredulously at Greg. "Archibald?"

"I know, right?" replied Greg with a grin.

She leaned her head to the side. "Don't ever say that again. You sound just like Lindsay... Like a teenager."

He inhaled a mockingly-sharp breath. "Sorry..."

She smiled at his attempts at humor, and her eyes fell back to the papers. "So, what have you learned so far?"

"His name is Archibald Gracie. He's in his forties. He was found stuffed in a ventilation shaft... by the housekeeper." Greg wheeled a stool a bit closer to them. "And, it gets better."

"Yeah, I'll bet." Catherine licked the end of her finger and turned the page. "It looks like a real stunner." After a few more moments of silence, she again eyed Greg like he'd just sprouted a second head. "'Delora'..."

"Yes. That's the housekeeper. She found him. She's agreed to come in for questioning."

Catherine tossed the folder lightly over on the table and ran her hand over her forehead and through her blonde hair. "Well, that's nice of her, I guess... What do we have in the way of evidence?"

"Not much, unfortunately," answered Greg. He spun around on his stool and pulled the small plastic container towards him. "Everything we've collected is minimal, too."

"What about the wife?"

"The wife? She's been REAL helpful. I mean..." here, he glanced at Catherine with some trepidation, "...she was an emotional wreck at the crime scene."

Catherine shrugged. "So what? It doesn't mean anything. They ALL are."

"Exactly what I was thinking." He pulled the small bags of evidence out one by one. "Warrick had the records of her statements. I think they're probably still with Brass."

"Mmm. Well, I'll get them once we're through here. How long till we can interview them?"

"Should be anytime," replied Greg. "They both came in to do DNA and fingerprints. That's what Warrick was doing before–"

–but he cut off before the name, "Nick" could make it out...

Catherine looked at her feet. And after a pause, "Well, let's do that first. I know it breaks protocol, but if we don't have a lot of evidence, it won't take long to review it."

Greg leaned back and looked at her sympathetically. "Taking a page out of Nick's book about breaking protocol?"

Catherine returned her gaze from his face to her feet.

He leaned forward and put a consoling hand on her forearm, where she leaned against the table. "Okay, bad joke–"

"–yeah–"

"–but I'm sorry for it, and he'll be alright, Catherine. He really will."

Again, she blinked the prickling of threatening tears away. "I know," was all she said. And then, "Who's the primary on this case?"

"I think, when there's a tradeoff, the primary becomes the person who was last on it..."

"So, that would be you." She shrugged. "It's your call, then. Do we interview the suspects, or process these... what, four bags of evidence first?"

"Oh, let's do an interview," answered Greg nonchalantly. "These people are being nice. We should at least pretend we don't suspect them by respecting their time."

She smiled sympathetically. "Good thinking. Do you want the wife or the housekeeper?"

He deliberated. "The housekeeper," he finally said. "I'm new on the field, and I already saw the wife." He inclined his head in her direction. "I want your take."

"Greg," assured Catherine. "It's alright. I'm too tired to evaluate you. Technically, you're the supervisor this time. I'll be back with my reports." She started for the door, but looked back at him. "Sir," she added.

She caught sight of the smile Greg couldn't help forming in the reflection on the glass doors before she disappeared through them, headed towards the waiting area.

When she reached it, she saw that the wife was sitting in the first seat. The housekeeper next to her was rubbing her red nose with a handkerchief.

Catherine stopped for a moment before approaching. When was the last time she'd seen someone using a handkerchief? But then again, this woman DID look about a hundred years old...

But she exhaled like she had in the materials lab, and then stepped up to them.

"Ginger Gracie?" she questioned gently.

"That's me," answered Ginger.

"I'm Catherine Willows. I'm with the crime lab. Thank you both for coming in."

"Oh, certainly," answered Ginger. "I just... I'm having a hard time with this, you know..."

"I understand. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she replied, and sniffled.

"I'm, uh... sorry, but I'm gonna need to ask you a few more questions," continued Catherine. "If you'll follow me. And my co-worker, Greg Sanders, will be here to get you, Delora..."

The housekeeper nodded politely and leaned back with a worn out expression on her face.

"If you'll follow me, Mrs. Gracie..."

The two women proceeded down the hallway and around a corner. As they passed, they saw Warrick thumbing through Nick's file. Catherine couldn't help staring, but when he looked up with a small smile, she forced her own eyes forward. She didn't want to think about Nick right before an interview. It wouldn't look very good when it broke through, as it undoubtedly would after a while.

When she reached interrogation, she held the door open. Mrs. Gracie stepped in with a gesture of her head.

"Go ahead and take a seat, Mrs. Gracie. This should only take a couple of minutes." She shut the door behind them and crossed the room to a seat. "I understand you've already spoken to my colleagues, Greg and Warrick."

"Oh, that's right," confirmed Mrs. Gracie. "I did. Very nice young men."

"Aren't they?" commented Catherine. "Now... Mrs. Gracie... what do you know about your husband's murder?"

"I came home from my vacation with my sisters. When I got off the elevator on my floor, I found the police there. I was told he was murdered, and my housekeeper found him."

"And that's all?" asked Catherine, inwardly begging for a bit more to go on.

"Until I talked to Delora. What I'm given to understand is, she came in for her usual weekend cleaning, and..." Mrs. Gracie turned her gaze to the table and again sniffled, "...and that's when she found him."

Catherine straightened the stack of papers she was holding in her hands by bouncing them on the table. "Yes. Tell me... did... Delora ever..." and she jutted how lower lip out thoughtfully, "...do anything.. suspicious... since you've known her? Were there ever any run-ins with your husband? Did she ever steal anything?"

Mrs. Gracie shook her head. "No, absolutely not. She's been with us for years." She smiled. "Since our children were born..."

"Oh," remarked Catherine in real surprise. "So... she was a, what, nanny?"

"You could say that," answered Mrs. Gracie. "She was a wonderful one, too. Took such great care of the children."

"I see..." said Catherine softly. "How long ago was that?"

Mrs. Gracie sighed. "Oh, my second son died when he was sixteen. My daughter died when she was nineteen. But, goodness, that was a long time ago. It's been almost ten years since."

Catherine sighed. "I see," she repeated. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, no. Please. Think nothing of it," assured Mrs. Gracie. "It was quite a shock for all of us. They died the same year..."

"The same year?" asked Catherine.

"Yes. At the same time, actually. The same car crash."

Catherine sat up straighter and folded her hands in front of her on the table. "Mrs. Gracie, where did you vacation with your sisters?"

"In Oregon. As I told Mr. Sanders, my sister inherited our grandmother's home out there. She invited us all out there to visit."

"That's nice," consoled Catherine with a grin.

"It's very nice out there. I'm quite fond of it. It brings back happier memories. You know...?" She raised her eyes to Catherine's. "When we get older, sometimes things change, and... at the time, it could seem positive. Like when I married Archie."

Catherine's snigger at this typical nickname was also contained, but barely so. As it was, she couldn't stop herself from blinking twice, noticeably. No matter how hard she pressed her lips together.

"It seemed like a great idea. And it really has been a marvelous twenty years."

"Twenty years?" asked Catherine.

"Yes. You see, it... was our anniversary today."

At this, Catherine squeezed her hands. "Oh, Mrs. Gracie. I–"

"When I got back, you see, I was going to visit our... our oldest son, and... then I realized Archie had today off." She brushed a few stray tears away. Her eyes were turned away. "So I thought I'd go and get him. You know, because he hasn't seen Frank in a while. That's how I found out."

Catherine nodded calmly. "Mrs. Gracie, do you mind if... we take a look at your luggage? Nothing that was inside, but just the suitcases, themselves?"

Mrs. Gracie's eyebrows furrowed. "M-my... my luggage?"

"Yes, ma'am. For protocols, only. We try to cover all grounds thoroughly."

"Oh, well..." exhaled Mrs. Gracie. "Certainly. If you think it will help. I have it with me, here. I was going to book a hotel."

"Alright, excellent. I'll have the, uh, receptionist assist you with your arrangements. She can get you and your things transportation. And I imagine, Greg is already interviewing Delora. If you'd like to follow me back to the waiting room..."

Catherine and Mrs. Gracie both rose from their chairs.

"And thank you, very much, for your help. It really does make all the difference," finished Catherine.

Mrs. Gracie smiled politely, and they left the room.

In the corner of her eye, Catherine could see Greg hard at work in the next room over.

* * *

"Thank you for coming in, Delora."

The housekeeper looked up and nodded her head once. "It's just so horrible... Mr. Gracie was such a wonderful man to work for."

"Was he?" asked Greg kindly. "Have you worked for him long?"

"Oh, yes," answered Delora with a smile. "I've worked for the Gracies almost thirty years now. I helped raise their children. I used to be his father's secretary."

"Secretary?"

"That's right. I, er... asked for the housekeeping position. The paper work was too much, you see."

"I understand," said Greg, holding up the papers in his own. "It's the only part of my job I don't like." He set it down, opened it, and begun to flip through it. "So, Delora, how often do you go out to the Gracies to clean?"

"A lot less, recently," answered Delora, considering. "Mr. Gracie was an employee at Crest."

"Crest?" repeated Greg.

"Yes. The toothpaste?"

"Oh, Crest! Crest... Alright, I got it, now."

"That's right," continued Delora. "He was very committed to his work. All his time and attention was paying off, too. They were going to promote him."

"Mr. Gracie was due for a promotion..." clarified Greg.

"That is correct," confirmed Delora. "He was so happy when he talked about it on the phone to Mrs. Gracie."

Greg folded his hands, similar to Catherine, and leaned forward on them. "And how was Mr. and Mrs. Gracie's marriage?"

"It all seemed quite good, from my angle. They would occasionally have an argument... Who doesn't, these days?"

"Oh, yes," replied Greg with a smile. "I know what you mean."

"But they were really getting along, I thought. Working through some of their problems."

"Mr. and Mrs. Gracie had problems?"

"I've been with the family for a long time, Mr. Sanders. I helped them raise their kids. I lived with them, at one point. Just before Joshua and Elaine died..." She rubbed her eyes with her hands and removed her glasses entirely from her face. "The Gracies had three children, you see. The oldest is Frank, by a good ten years. He was the reason they got married. He's still with us, but he is all grown up now! I'm very proud of him."

Greg couldn't help smiling a bit.

"They had a daughter next. And then, another son. Mr. and Mrs. Gracie were very happy. But they died... that night Elaine decided to get into her daddy's liquor. She put Joshua in the car, and she drove. And they crashed it." Delora shook her head. "They never woke up. Frank was almost halfway through college at the time. He went late, you see..."

"Where is Frank now?" asked Greg.

"He works with his father, at Crest." She took a deep, regretful sounding breath. "Or did... I haven't seen him in so long... I wonder how he'll handle this..."

Greg blinked prominently and closed the folder in front of him. "Delora, you found the body when you were cleaning, correct?"

"I didn't get that far. I came into the living room, and I could smell it right away. I found him after searching everywhere. I called the police immediately."

Greg nodded. "That was the right thing to do. Thank you for all your help."

Delora smiled widely. "Thank YOU, Mr. Sanders."

* * *

Catherine yawned when she took a seat behind the table back in the materials room. Her vision was starting to haze over. It had been a long shift...

Her eyes popped open at the sound of Greg entering the room.

"Hey, Catherine."

She blinked to try to wake herself up more. "Oh. Yes, hi, Greg." She cleared her throat. "Did you learn anything new?"

"Yes! I did, actually... Delora worked for the family a long time. Almost thirty years. She helped raise the children." He pulled up a secondary stool. "And apparently, Archibald and his oldest son work at Crest."

"The toothpaste?" asked Catherine.

Greg grinned. "Yeah. I'm actually a little disappointed you picked up on that... I had to guess at it."

She ignored that. "Well, where are the children now?"

"Well, according to Delora, all but one of them... died."

Catherine looked down. "Yes. Mrs. Gracie told me that."

Greg fell into a thoughtful silence. For a moment... but then he looked around and realized there were suitcases on the floors and tables. Catherine watched him, fighting back a smile, but losing.

"Where did all these come from?" he asked.

"It's our new evidence. Mrs. Gracie agreed to let us check them."

Greg appeared confused. "Her luggage?"

"That's right."

"How'd you get her to give you her luggage?"

Catherine leaned towards him on the table. "I told her we wanted to be thorough."

Greg nodded. "And thorough, we shall be."

* * *

Grissom rounded the corner into the locker room doorway with a negative anticipation. He could already hear Sara in there, trying to calm herself with deep breathing. Before going too deeply into the room, he stopped and leaned against the frame. He wasn't good with emotions, in most cases, and at times like these, he was almost always ready to admit it. Particularly with Sara, whose outbursts were even more unpredictable and intense than anyone he'd ever met.

"Hey."

The sound of her voice made him jump a little. He banged his head on the side in the act of looking up. "Oh. Sara, there you are. Hey..."

"Coming to check up on me?" asked Sara with an obviously-forced smile.

Grissom's eyes swept over her with disapproval. She was very red in the face. Her eyes were still misty. She was still shaking. Her nose looked like it was running a marathon. One glance to the garbage can beside the bench confirmed it, with an entire box's worth of Kleenex lying underneath the box itself, neatly on top.

"Yes," he said in answer to her question. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good," Sara said hastily. "I am, really. Much better."

Grissom turned his head ever-so-slightly to the side. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I am." She looked away from him to the lower walls. "I just, seeing Nick like that, you know...?"

Grissom blinked in thought, but finally came back back with, "No, I don't."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Her facial muscles spasmed violently. When she opened her mouth, he expected quite the response...

Instead, "It's just, he's such a good guy. Nicky is, I meant to say. He's never done anything wrong, and..." she brushed at her dampening eyes again, "...and I don't know WHAT'S happening to him. Or to me, I–"

Grissom sighed. "–he's been arrested for shooting someone. Out in the desert."

Sara swallowed. "Shooting someone."

"Yes. As Catherine said, he halted a squad when he heard a scream. He got out of his car, and looked down over the bridge. There was a woman there, about to be injured – killed, most likely – by an assailant. He shot him. Nick shot the attacker, I mean."

She folded her arms across her chest. Grissom noticed she had put on a sweater.

"Nick saved a woman," she stated.

"That's right," confirmed Grissom. "He did. I know that, and you know that. But unfortunately, the law–"

"–doesn't see it that way," Sara cut across him. "I know." She looked down at her feet. "I do. I know..."

Grissom took a tentative step forward and placed both hands on her shoulders. "Sara..." he began cautiously, "...right now, we really need everyone to be at their best." He paused for a moment, eyes angling upward. "Nick needs everyone to be at the best," he amended. "I'm afraid I can't let you on any cases in this state."

She nodded before he even finished his sentence. "I knew that was coming," she said when he'd finished.

"But, if you want to wait here – off the clock, out of the way of everyone who's still working – and see what happens with Nick, we can do that."

She looked up, and her smile was a little more genuine. "Thank you, Gris. That would be absolutely great." And she patted his hands once, then stepped around him out into the hallway. "I'm gonna go clock out."

Grissom nodded after her and watched her go down the dimly-lit hall. As she went, she wiped her eyes again, even though she hadn't been crying during their discussion.

Grissom shook his head. Somehow, some way... he was determined to figure her out.

He then leaned back on the door frame again, this time for his own sake, and ran his hands through his hair. He couldn't help thinking about Nick, either. Wondering what he must be thinking, what it must feel like to be where he was.

He sighed as he pushed himself off the edge of the wall with his back and headed off in Sara's wake. Mentally, he was thanking the gods for Lady Heather's timing as much as he was cursing it. Some small part of him couldn't help feeling annoyed that this what he was doing when she'd decided to come back by... And he knew that was wrong.

Wrong by his team. Wrong by his friends and family at the lab. Wrong by Nick and Sara. Wrong, as a general rule. But he couldn't help it.

The extra light in the main hallway sort of hurt his eyes. He raised a hand instinctively to shield them for a few seconds, while they adjusted. When he lowered it, it felt like he was viewing the world from a slow motion angle all over again. The silhouettes of the people milling about, for various reasons, felt comforting. Comforting enough to almost drive single-handedly the natural, habitual replay of Nick being taken down the early morning, sunlit hallway to the holding cells.

Almost, but not quite. Grissom could see Nick's weary face. Feel Brass coming to stand behind him again. Smell Lady Heather's perfume. Remember Sara's chin hitting the floor. Her body beginning to shake. The way her face crumpled when she ran past. The one sob he'd been able to catch before she'd disappeared.

With another tired sigh, he removed his glasses and turned for his office. He was certain Sara would end up there, eventually. And it was time to talk to Lady Heather. See how she could help, as she'd so generously offered...


	5. Saved

Sara stopped short of Grissom's door with a minor stamp of her foot – Lady Heather was still there, looking at the books on his shelf. As Sara watched, she reached up tentatively and took one down. And all Sara could see of it was the tarantula on its big, bright yellow cover. The titling was written in green letters, and seemed to stick out from the rest of it. Lady Heather perused its contents with a look that appeared fixated from Sara's angle.

At that moment, footsteps came to a halt beside her. She leaned her head to the side without taking her eyes off of Lady Heather. "So... what, exactly, do you see in her?"

"Not a damn thing," replied Brass.

Sara jumped. "Oh! Sorry, Jim! I thought you were Grissom..."

"Obviously," said Brass, grinning ear to ear. "He's on his way, I just passed him. I'm going to see Nicky. I've got something for him."

"Oh?" asked Sara, trying to look supremely uninterested.

"Yep. A picture. Something to help keep his spirits up."

She nodded, her eyes moving downward, and took a deep breath.

"He'll be fine, Sara. I'm sure of it," consoled Brass, hand patting her back roughly once.

"Yeah," answered Sara, somewhat mechanically. "Yeah, I'm sure of it, too. It's just..."

"...hard," finished Brass after a moment. He set off down the hallway. "I know," he said over his shoulder. "I know..."

Sara watched him walking down the hallway with mixed feelings. Brass could be infuriating, on so many different levels – he was often hard to read, hard in his demeanor, and it wasn't hard to see why his marriage didn't last.

_From a woman's perspective, anyway_, she mused. _There's probably altogether too many men who would have blamed his wife for it..._

On the other hand, he seemed to have a keen sense of when it was time to let up. Such as when Nick was facing a possible life sentence in prison. Sara's initial relations with Brass had been cool, to put it mildly. But she couldn't help the small smile that crept onto her lips as he vanished around the corner towards the holding cells.

"Sara? Do you need help finding my office?"

Smile still in place, she exhaled sharply, her annoyance hidden by the angle of her body. "I was just talking to Brass."

"About Nick," stated Grissom. His heat registered lightly against the side of her as he came level with her.

"Yes," she confirmed. "He's taking Nicky a picture. Something to cheer him up, I guess."

"That's awfully nice of him," Grissom threw her a bone. "I see Lady Heather's enjoying my spider book."

Sara turned her vision back to the office, and saw that Lady Heather had become quite absorbed by it. Even Sara couldn't resist grinning at the sight...

"Come on in," said Grissom. He held the door open behind him before stepping in.

Sara inhaled deeply when she crossed the threshold into Grissom's office. For some reason, it was cooler in there than even the locker room. She rubbed the side of her arm and furrowed her brow in consideration.

"Do you have your own air conditioner or something?" she asked of Grissom.

"No," he answered, and settled down into the chair behind his desk. "I just keep the vents open." He turned to Lady Heather. "Like that book, Heather?"

"Certainly," she replied without looking up. "But what's the situation?"

"That guy who just went by... You remember him."

"Yes, I remember Nick Stokes."

"Good. Well, he's a good friend of ours. Apparently, he shot someone out in the desert."

Lady Heather closed the book and slid it onto the edge of the desk. She seemed undisturbed by the informtion. "I see. And?"

"The problem is, he did it because he heard a woman screaming. He got out of his car and looked over the side of a bridge. And that's when he saw her. There was a man, also – the one he shot. He was apparently about to hurt this woman, with a knife. Nick shot him to protect her."

Lady Heather turned her head to the side and exhaled. "I know the law: he technically murdered the man because the courts wouldn't consider him a criminal until he'd actually done the damage to the victim."

Grissom inclined his head forward. "That's right." He eyed Lady Heather with approval. "And he took a shot at a hostage..."

Sara looked between them with some irritation. "And, on top of that, he stopped a police squad without 'due cause'," she added with air quotes, "so he's against protocol, also."

But her irritation quickly left, pushed from her by the mental images of Nick, returning and replacing it. She sat in the chair she'd been leaning against and buried her face in her hands.

Suddenly, the door opened. Sara looked up and saw (to her distaste) that Hodges was coming in. Again...

"Hey, Grissom? There's a woman here who says she was saved by one of the police officers? Out in the desert?"

Sara looked over to Grissom.

He nodded. "I see. Here to see Nick, is she?"

"That's... what she said, when we showed her his picture," said Hodges.

Sara was up out of her chair well before Grissom. She slid around Hodges with a bit of grace she'd never even seen herself demonstrate before. She caught sight of Lady Heather's lips twitching upwards briefly before Hodges turned to look after her and cut Lady Heather off from view. She didn't care enough to feel annoyed by it, though – maybe this woman could do something to help clear Nick. Or, at least, reduce the severity of the charges against him.

Around several corners, Sara blinked and winced, still caught off guard by how bright the sunlight was in the main hall. It didn't take long to locate the center of her focus: the woman was pacing by the front desk with a glass of water in her hand. The man following along behind her had his hand on her shoulder, and she looked back to smile at him. Sara sighed, blinked once, shook her head, and proceeded with her approach.

"Hi," she announced her arrival with a careful smile.

The woman looked up, seemingly as cautious. "Hello."

"I'm, uh... Sara Sidle. I'm with the crime lab. Are you the one my friend saved in the desert?"

She nodded. "Oh! Yes, Mr. Stokes?"

"That's right. Nicky..."

A smile crept up on her face. "I see..."

Grissom's voice reached Sara's ears from behind her. "Sara, are you quite alright?"

She looked back at him with confusion for a moment. "Oh..." she shook her head, "yes, I'm fine," and smiled toothily. "Thanks." She turned back to the woman.

"Good," answered Grissom, coming next to her. He leaned into her ear and whispered, "Because you're off the clock, technically."

Sara raised both hands in surrender and stepped away. "Sorry."

He still didn't seem able to stop himself from grinning. He stepped past her and held his hand out to the woman. "Hi. Gil Grissom. I'm..." he looked at Sara through the corner of his eye, "...also with the crime lab. And a good friend of Nick's. I hope I am, anyway..." He indicated Hodges. "This is David Hodges–" and to Lady Heather, "–and...?"

"Just Heather," she finished, also shaking hands.

"Hi. Gina Hollows," said the woman. "This is my boyfriend, Harry."

"Hello," he added.

"Can we... help you somehow?" asked Grissom.

"Oh," said Gina, reaching into the purse hanging on her shoulder, "I wanted to give something to Mr. Stokes. I made it at the hospital. Here..."

With one hand, Grissom reapplied his glasses, and with the other, he accepted the handmade card from her, and opened it with curiosity. Both Lady Heather and Sara looked over his shoulder.

The latter's hands came up to her mouth, and she gasped. Her eyes began to water again.

The card was made from construction paper. It was orange, with a red layer glued on. In green marker, there was a fancy, curvy writing spelling out _Thank You_ within a large, pink-drawn heart. In the lower right, there was a small drawing of a pasture, with little sheep lying down in it under a detailed moon. Glitter stars laid over the top in different colors.

Grissom folded it closed and turned it to examine the front.

On it were clouds and a mountain vista, where the sun was coming over with its rays streaming out. The same sheep were awake, and looking up at the sun with smiles on their faces. Multi-colored flowers that had only been visible as silhouettes on the inside were now visible fully.

Sara turned from around Grissom's shoulder and leaned her elbows on the desk... and fought hard against the shaking that was returning to her shoulders. Her eyes had fallen behind her hands, but she raised them again and looked over at the others.

Grissom handed the card back to her. His gaze was on his feet as he took his glasses back off and held them in his folded hands. When he lifted his head again, his features had softened greatly.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Hollows," he said softly.

"Oh, you're very welcome. Is-is he busy? Can we give it to him?"

A familiar, rough voice answered, "I'm afraid not."

Ms. Hollows and her boyfriend turned to see Brass.

Who stepped up to them regretfully. "I... just got back from visiting him. He's... he's in a holding cell."

Hearing it again made Sara feel worse: _"He's in a holding cell_..."

She turned entirely away from the scene and looked at the ceiling. There were some pipes running down the hallways overhead. She followed them, and listened to the conversation play out behind her.

"In... in a holding cell? Why?" asked Harry.

"He, um... his actions were against PD protocols..." answered Brass. "And, sadly, the law."

Gina snorted. "He... he saved my life."

"We understand that, Ms. Hollows. We do," said Grissom. "And, personally, we're all very proud of him, here."

"But, we have to take action against him for it, all the same," concluded Brass.

"I-I don't understand," said Gina, after a few moments pause. "What law? What protocols?"

"Well, if you'd like to come and speak with me, officially, I can give you all the details," promised Grissom.

"Answer some questions...?" suggested Brass.

"Sure," said Harry.

"Certainly," agreed Gina.

"Terrific," said Grissom.

"Alright, then, if you'll follow Mr. Grissom, he'll take you to a room for interview."

Sara turned in time to see them going off down the hall.

Lady Heather shook her head. "The law..." she simply said.

"Yeah," agreed Brass. "Even I don't like it, sometimes." He approached Sara determinedly, and put both hands on her shoulders. "But there's always a way," he whispered.

She nodded, and found that she felt better. She really did...

"I don't know..." interjected Hodges. "Do we really think he's innocent, here?"

Sara and Brass turned to him, and their faces were the very definition of incredulous. Even Lady Heather – who did not look up, but whose face crinkled in disdain – seemed put off.

"Well, I'm just saying..." continued Hodges. "We should consider all angles, shouldn't we?"

"Nick is a good man," Sara burst out and strode towards Hodges. "He's a good man, and he's done a good thing, here!"

Hodges leaned back a bit from her, eyes widening.

"That's right," added Brass. He out a hand out and gently pulled Sara back from Hodges by the shoulder. "That's right, Hodges. Why don't you let us worry about this? Get back to work, huh?"

Hodges didn't appear to need telling twice. He made a clear path around Sara and went for his lab.

Feet slowly and automatically carrying her back towards Brass, Sara watched him go with flaring nostrils.

"Hey, Sara..." said Brass carefully. "I know it's a hard time, but... be careful, you know?"

She looked at the floor. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I do. Sorry."

He winked reassuringly, then set off down the hall after Grissom and the survivors.

Lady Heather came up by Sara and took a deep breath. "You're very worried," she observed.

Sara lacked the strength to feel imposed on by Lady Heather but still did not look up at her as she nodded her agreement. "I am. Nick's been a very good friend."

"Very good," said Lady Heather in agreement. "And he'll pull through this. You both will. Together."

Sara's lower lip trembled for just a second. But she still smiled. "I hope so," she finally sighed, and raised her head, visually following Brass to the interrogation rooms.

* * *

"Thank you so much for this," repeated Grissom for the third time. "It really is a HUGE help in these scenarios."

"No problem," said Harry. "He saved my girl..."

Brass sank into the chair beside Grissom. "True. He did, but... why did your girl need saved? What happened, there?"

Harry and Gina looked at each other and shrugged slightly.

"I was... at work. My phone vibrated, and I got a message from her. Said she needed help."

"Hmm," replied Grissom. "May I see the phone?"

"Sure." Harry reached into his back pocket and withdrew an old flip phone.

Grissom yanked a stretchy pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slid his right hand into one of them. He took the phone from Harry gingerly.

"We know you called 9-1-1," said Brass. "Dispatch received the call."

"That's right," said Harry. "I rushed home from work, and I found her phone lying in the bathroom. Behind the toilet."

"Behind the toilet..." repeated Brass.

"That's right," piped up Gina. "I slid it behind there when he came back to the bathroom. He was looking for Harry. I have no idea why... He wouldn't tell me anything." Her eyes closed with the memory. "He knocked on the door, and I answered. There was only one. I thought it was a joke, at first." She giggled lightly. "I mean, who shows up at your door wearing a ski mask anymore, right?"

Grissom nodded sympathetically. "So cliché nowadays, yes."

"Right. Anyway... he asked where Harry was. I said, 'Who wants to know?' I thought it WAS Harry, at first. I tried to pull the ski mask off, and he hit me."

She turned her head to the side, and there was a massive bruise on her neck that Grissom hadn't noticed before. He winced, and sucked in the air through his teeth.

"I tried to get up and run for the back door, but... he was too fast. He grabbed me by the shoulders and drug me to the bathroom. He threw me in there and wedged it shut with one of the dining room chairs. I could hear him kicking down doors and slamming around. I remember glass breaking, because I flinched, and then I remembered I had my cell phone in my pocket when it pressed into my hip against the floor."

Her voice broke up as she began a contained crying. "I texted Harry. Quickly, and then I thought about trying to keep my phone on me. In case someone could track me with it. But I figured, they'd think to check me for one eventually, so I jammed it behind the toilet, up against the wall. I knew he'd be back, and he could at least contact the police if he had some idea what happened."

"Good thinking in such a circumstance," said Grissom, reassuringly.

"Thanks." She smiled, despite herself. "The guy yanked the door open... and he started wrapping me up in duct tape. He carried me out front and threw me in the trunk of the car he was driving. It looked like a rental. We drove out into the desert."

She wiped away the tears from her eyes. "Next thing I know, I hear police sirens. I thought they were coming for me. Then, your guy – Nick Stokes – he put a bullet in the guy's head. He collapsed next to me, and the police came... and started untying me." She shook her head. "I was so relieved... They got me to the hospital, and Harry came. Then we came here, after the doctor said I hadn't suffered any injuries."

Harry pulled her into an embrace.

Grissom set the phone back down in the middle of the table. After a moment, "I advise you to keep those text messages. Get a hard copy of them, if you can. They may be useful for something later on, if you're willing."

"Sure," replied Harry. He took his phone and flipped it shut. "Anything to get the bastards who did this."

"What about Mr. Stokes? Nick?" asked Gina, cleaning her face completely with a Kleenex. "Will he be alright?"

"We're doing everything on our power to see to that, Ms. Hollows," said Grissom. "He's a good CSI with a strong reputation. His character witnesses and credentials will help."

"Well, is there... is there something we can do?" asked Harry, looking between them.

"Your testimonies here will be added to his character witness, if you'd like," said Brass, with a light shrug.

"Oh, please," said Gina. "Please, do."

"Thank you," Grissom said again.

"You're welcome, and if there's anything you can tell us. Anything legal... Please, let us know," said Gina.

"We will," confirmed Brass. "If you'd like to leave your number at reception, we'll keep you notified of anything we can."

"Thanks," said Gina.


	6. The Memories

Greg narrowed his eyes with the effort of flinging another suitcase across the room into the growing pile.

"Here's another one," he said. "All male."

Catherine looked up from the clipboard she was writing on. "This woman has more suitcases than she has space to store them in that tiny little apartment she lives in."

"Yep," agreed Greg. "And... she's a liar."

"She sure is. All male DNA. On ALL her suitcases," emphasized Catherine. And she flung the pen from her hand down to the desk.

"Every single one," confirmed Greg. He slid away from the table and removed his gloves.

"Watch it, Grissom's coming," muttered Catherine hurriedly.

They each leaned forward simultaneously and grabbed something – anything – that was on the desk to make themselves look busy.

"Hey, guys," greeted Grissom, tiredly. He strode past them, quite busy on something of his own, apparently. "How's the ventilation shaft case coming?"

"So far, confusingly," answered Greg.

Grissom stopped, and seemed to notice their flustered expressions at last.

"There's all male DNA on these suitcases," explained Catherine. She flipped the page of the clipboard over. "We've tested every... single... one... of these suitcases. Multiple times."

"And it's all male, huh?" said Grissom.

"It is," said Greg.

"And... have we got an ID on the male?" questioned Grissom.

"We do." Greg rolled over to the computer and clicked on the mouse several times.

Grissom leaned over him to read the screen. "Someone else named Greg..."

"That's right. Someone who shares my name has left themselves all over this woman's luggage."

Catherine tapped the end of her pen on the table. It was obvious to Greg, she was still thinking about Nick.  
So, he decided to try. "How's-how's... how's Nick?" he asked Grissom.

Grissom didn't look at either of them as he flipped open the folder he was holding. "Good. Quite well, actually. It looks like we've got another character witness for him."

Greg and Catherine exchanged glances. "Character witness?" asked Greg.

"Yes, character witness. It'll help with his reputation. Could be all the difference between life and death," he rattled on insensitively.

Catherine made a strange croaking noise and collapsed forward on the desk. Her head shook back and forth, even as it rested in her palms.

Grissom just blinked, but Greg sighed... and moved from his chair to her side with an expression of anxiety.

"Catherine," said Grissom, sternly, "I gave you this case because you needed to be away from the business with Nick. Do I need to send you home, instead?"

When Catherine's face reemerged from her hands, Greg half-expected fire to shoot out of her eyes. "No, thank you, Gil. I'm doing just fine."

"Then... why the breakdown?"

"You just implied the death penalty on Nicky!" shouted Catherine. "Wouldn't you have a breakdown?"

Grissom's hands reached out patronizingly – something he often did when Sara was having a moment. "Okay. Okay..."

She exhaled sharply and let her gaze drop back to the table. "Jesus Christ, Gil..."

"Okay," repeated Grissom, with an air of impatience. "It's just, nobody here is really thinking about the effects this is having on everyone. I'm sorry for Nick's predicament–"

"–'predicament'–" interjected Greg, incredulously,

"–yes, 'predicament'," finalized Grissom. "I know what I said. I know what I called it. But regardless of what happens to Nick, this department will go on. I hope nothing happens to him. I really do. But we all need to start thinking of ways to preserve the department and CSI's reputations, as well."

He went past them back the way he came and headed for the door.

"Boy, you'd better do something about that overbearing professionalism, Grissom." Catherine's words were cutting, but calmer as she spoke this time.

"And why's that?" inquired Grissom.

She looked up at him, right in the eye. "Because nobody here would want anything bad to happen to you, either. But they'd be more worried about the PD's reputation, if this was your 'predicament'. When it's Nick..." she rolled her stool back up to the table, "...everyone's worried about him. For the PERSON that he is."

Grissom paused. "I see..."

"Oh, no, you don't," pushed Catherine with a wave of her hand. "You don't, really."

Greg's phone buzzed. He rolled his eyes and turned from Catherine and Grissom's exchange entirely. It was a message from Doc Robbins.

_When you have a minute, come on down to the morgue. I've wrapped up the autopsy on your vent victim. I have the prints and DNA for you._

He looked back at Catherine and Grissom.

"No, I do, Catherine." Grissom's head ducked. "I know you don't have much faith in me beyond my forensic sciences, but I do."

She fixed him with a knowing glare. "You don't really believe that. It's just that Nick's emotions – even if they get in the way, sometimes – have made him some friendships. Really close ones. They've allowed to him have some kind of life. Outside of work."

"Like Sara," commented Grissom, head inclined sideways.

Greg's eyes darted to Catherine for her reaction automatically.

"That's right," she replied viciously. "Like Sara."

Neither spoke again, nor took their eyes off each other.

When he couldn't take the intensity anymore, Greg waved a nervous hand. "Uh, guys... Doc has our autopsy results."

"Wonderful," amended Catherine in monotone, still locked on Grissom. "Let's get going."

"Agreed," continued Grissom. "I'll join you."

"Certainly." Catherine pushed back from the table. "Why don't you?"

"I assume you're the primary," said Grissom. "Then, Greg, you stay here and finish up the evidence processing."

"Uh..." interrupted Greg. "I'm the primary."

Grissom's eyes wandered to the side and his lips twitched. "How's that work?"

"You traded Warrick out for Catherine. I was on the case first, so that makes me the primary. Right?"

Grissom shook his head. "Sorry, Greggo. Catherine's the ranking CSI. Not quite how it works."

A weight sank into Greg's stomach. He blinked noticeably. "Oh..."

But Catherine didn't miss a beat. "That's just fine. You can come with us, then."

Grissom's eyes tightened as she passed, removing her lab coat.

Greg hesitated to go near him, but recognized the stand Catherine had just taken for him, at the same time...

He still couldn't resist a nervous smile as he inched past Grissom into the hall.

* * *

On the way down to the morgue, Grissom kept his eyes on the trim along the floor. Catherine's steps were icy beside him, and Greg was looking determinedly ahead of himself, walking in between and just behind them.

Grissom held the door open when they reached it. "After you," he indicated coldly.

They ducked beneath his arms and entered the morgue.

"Catherine... good... There you are..." said Doc Robbins.

Confusion settled in Grissom's stomach. Doc Robbins held his arms out, and Catherine walked right into them, where she rested her head on his shoulder for a few moments, and sighed.

"How's he doing?" asked Doc.

"I haven't been to see him," said Catherine. She pulled back and rubbed her eyes. "I just can't..."

The light bulb clicked on in Grissom's head. Of course. It was about Nick... He folded his arms and surveyed Catherine and Doc over his glasses.

"I'm sure he understands," assured Doc.

Catherine nodded. "I hope. But I don't know. I was just so... I tried to stay detached when I was processing him. I think I just made him feel worse."

"Well, you gave professionalism a shot," consoled Doc. "It's important, but it's also important to know when to let it go."

Grissom felt the muscles keeping his arms folded across his chest weaken of their own accord a little in their grip.

"Nick needs us right now. All of us."

Behind Catherine, Greg let his eyes go down, and his hands fold in front of him. "That's right," he added.

Doc smiled at him momentarily, but then stepped over to the autopsy table. "I'll go and visit him in a little while." He took his glasses from the table and slid them on. "I have a feeling Sara being here will do some good." He smiled up in Grissom's direction. "By the way, I've been meaning to tell you how very impressive that was, Gil. Letting her stay."

Catherine and Greg both looked at him with a shock evident in their expressions that sent a sudden chill of self-disappointment through him. He couldn't really come off as THAT emotionless and unfeeling to everyone...? Could he...?

He recovered from it when Doc's smile faded a bit at the lack of an answer. "Oh! Uh... yes. Thank you, Al. I just... I know her, and she's... For some reason, she's... very affected by this..."

"Yes..." continued Doc, adjusting the light over the victim's body. "I've been thinking about that. For quite a while before now, actually." His glance in Greg's direction was knowing. "I think your quest for Sara's heart has been in vain since she arrived, Greg. No offense."

Catherine – having looked down over the body since Doc had last spoken to her – smiled.

To Grissom's surprise, so did Greg.

"I think I always knew that," answered Greg with a shrug. "That's okay." He suddenly looked quite pleased with himself. "I had a date last weekend, actually."

"Good work, Greg," gushed Catherine. "Very impressive."

"Good," agreed Doc.

"Congratulations," added Grissom with a snark.

Greg looked around in mock-surprise. "Boy, you'd think it was the first time."

Doc shook his head, but pulled the body towards him by the table's wheels. "Now, about Archie, here."

Grissom stepped up to join them by the body.

"C.O.D. was blunt force trauma. To the back of the head, specifically," added Doc. "Archie, here, died when the back of his skull was cracked. He received many other sharp blows to his body, but none of them left anymore damage than the external bruises."

"He's covered in them," commented Catherine.

"Sure is," said Greg.

"He is. And based on the liver temp., David's estimation was a recent death."

"He was found by the housekeeper this morning," said Grissom, arms still folded and eyes still focused keenly on the body.

"That's consistent with David's guess, then," said Doc. "There's certainly no rigor. He's actually in very good shape, apart from being dead. At age forty, he has no cancer, no prostate problems, no detrimental health effects of any kind that I can see. Someone just split open the back of his head."

"Someone who knew him, I'm guessing," said Greg. "There was no trail at the scene, of any kind, to suggest he'd been dragged. He was in the vent. Warrick found blood on the couch, but that's all."

"Blood on the couch..." mused Catherine.

"That's right. He collected it, but it came back consistent with the victim's."

Grissom leaned over the body. "There's no defensive markings anywhere on him. Whoever it was, they snuck up on him."

"That's also consistent with the scene," said Greg. He turned to Doc. "Can we get the fingerprints and DNA?"

"Yes. Here they are..." Doc slid the integri-swab and ten card across to Greg. "There's something else you should know."

Catherine and Greg had started for the door with their evidence, but they stopped to look back.

"Well, mostly for you, Gil." Doc looked at him. "It's about Nick. Lady Heather was down here. She recognizes the man Nick shot, after Sara showed her the pictures of him."

Grissom scratched his shoulder wearily. "Alright. Thanks, Catherine and Greg. Thanks, Doc. I'll go and see them about it."

In the corner of his eye, the doors swung shut behind Catherine and Greg.

* * *

"Okay..." said Catherine. "Let's get ahold of Brass. See how soon we can expect to have Mrs. Gracie in."

"That's right. She's got a lot to answer for. Lying to us about the vacation–"

"–the unexplained presence of her husband's boss' DNA on her suitcases..."

They were walking steadily up the stairs away from the morgue.

"So, do you want to make the call, or shall I?" asked Greg. "Primary..."

Catherine stopped him with a sigh and an outstretched arm that brushed against the stone wall. "I'm sorry. About that, I mean. I thought you were doing fine."

Greg's friendly smile did a little to ease the knot in her stomach that she was, basically, ignoring completely, at this point.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome. You go ahead and call Brass. I need to look over the full report, now..."

"Got it," he said. "Exactly what I told Warrick..."

* * *

Sara vacated Grissom's chair immediately when the door opened and he, himself came in.

"Hey. I was just down in the morgue on Catherine and Greg's case. Doc told me Nick's target had a friend."

"Well, not exactly..." answered Sara. "Lady Heather recognized him."

"That's what I meant," continued Grissom. He slid into his chair and pulled the pictures towards him. "Any idea where she is?"

"She went to get some water," replied Sara, plainly.

Silence. While Sara thumbed through an empty looking pamphlet in front of her, seated on the edge of his desk, Grissom observed her with some trepidation.

"Sara..." he tried after a few moments of working up some courage.

She looked up at him with a formal smile.

"Thank you for keeping Heather entertained," he said.

She shrugged. "No problem. It's the least I could do, after..."

"...After... what?"

She looked up again, and yawned. "After you let me stay with Nicky."

"It's my pleasure."

The smile she gave him this time was a little less formal.

"What did I miss?"

Grissom's stomach seemed to lighten a bit when Lady Heather spoke. As she sauntered towards the chair by his desk, he watched her movements with fascination...

"Did you show him the pictures?" she asked of Sara.

"I did. Here, tell him."

Lady Heather reached forward and retrieved one of the photos. "This man... He's the one Nick Stokes shot, correct?"

"That's right," confirmed Grissom with a single nod.

"Do you remember Zoe?"

"Your daughter. Of course I remember her. She was beautiful." And he meant it.

Lady Heather just nodded stoically. "She was. And this man... was her father."

Grissom's reaction came slowly. First, his smile faded. Then, his eyes widened. And finally, his lips parted.

"This was... a LONG time ago."

"Wait till you hear what his last name was," said Sara.

"It's Gracie." Lady Heather took a sip of her water.

"Gracie..." sighed Grissom. "Of course it is..." He stopped in the action of rubbing his eyes. "So, you knew Catherine and Greg's victim, then. Archibald Gracie."

"No," said Lady Heather. "Until just now, I had no idea. But I do know where Zoe's great grandmother lives. She was... helpful, with the struggles of being a single mother. She was Frank's grandmother."

"Frank...?" said Grissom.

"That's right," confirmed Sara. "Frank Gracie."

"And I was actually..." said Lady Heather, "...going to visit her while I was here, anyway." She stood up and drained the last of her water into her mouth. "Perhaps I can learn something."

Grissom stood and felt a mild panic – fleeting – come into his throat. "Are you sure you want to do that? Get involved, like this?"

"But why wouldn't I?" asked Lady Heather with false curiosity. "I love a challenge. And, as I said: I was going to see her, anyway."

"Heather..."

But she was gone. The door closed behind her, and through the glass, he watched her go with sadness. Sadness that was momentary, as she smiled at him once before she was gone from his sight.

Leaving him alone with Sara. A very disgruntled-looking Sara.

He sat back down and hoped against hope she wouldn't say anything. He knew she would, but he hoped...

So he wasn't surprised when she put a hand to her head and her eyes squeezed closed. And she said, "What, exactly, do you see in her?"

Grissom turned his head upwards fully.

He did NOT want to answer that. Since meeting Lady Heather, Grissom had questioned almost all of his general life policies – his views on women, his thoughts on sex and personal interaction, and intimacy. His general business sense. His approach to cases. Something about Heather had stirred a strange reaction in him. One that felt kind of like a dormant monster, lying in wait for exactly whatever it was that Lady Heather had fed to it.

But on the other hand, there was Sara. Fiery, cunning... also quite lonely Sara. Before meeting Heather, Grissom had met Sara. And it had been Sara who had introduced him to the ideas Heather had merely revived. It felt like a lifetime ago, during his lecture, that his eyes had fallen on Sara in the crowd. Her eyes – trained so studiously and laser like on him – piercing the darkness in the room, save for the spotlight shining on him while he spoke. He loved the feel of giving a lecture, and that one always stood out in his memory. (Although, in retrospect, he figured the amount of time he'd spent obviously staring at Sara throughout the rest of it was probably something that should embarrass him.)

But it had been a long time since she'd looked at him like that. Not since she'd crossed the police tape to speak to him while Nick had flung test dummies off the roof of a hotel. Back just before Holly had died...

Since then, in fact, she hadn't really worn that expression at all.

Not that he'd seen.

Except when she looked at Nick.

Grissom removed his glasses clumsily, letting them lay where they fell into a cushion of unattended papers sitting on his desk. "There's a lot that I see in Lady Heather," he finally said.

"Yeah? Like what?" pressed Sara.

"She's very intelligent, for one," said Grissom. "Very beautiful. Very optimistic."

Sara blinked, as if to question his sanity.

"You know what I mean, Sara. Even when things look bad, she has a subtly-optimistic outlook on things. When she wants to. And that's one of the other things that impresses me about her. Possibly impresses me the most, actually: she always seems to know when its appropriate to accept reality. She has a fine grasp on it."

Sara's head jerked in several different directions, but eventually, she landed her gaze back on Grissom. "Is that it?"

Grissom shrugged. "Yes. Do you need more?"

* * *

Sara stopped, and thought. The real question wasn't if she NEEDED more – it was if she WANTED more. She didn't know if Grissom knew if that was what he was really asking her or not, but she knew one thing: she didn't want more. And even though she failed to understand the attraction, she knew she wouldn't ever, even if Grissom explained every last detail of it to her.

So she smiled, formally once again, and shook her head. "No, that's... quite alright." And she returned to her pamphlet.

"Sara."

Sara did not look back up. "Yes?"

"What about Nick?"

She considered, but when she could not figure out the rest of his question, she looked puzzlingly at him.

"What do you see in him?" pressed Grissom.

_Nice_, she growled internally. _Pull that one on me, right now, why don't you...?_ But what she SAID was, "What do you mean, 'see in him'?"

"Oh, come on, Sara." Grissom leaned forward on his elbows and looked at her like he wasn't buying it. "I've never seen you this worked up about something."

"Yes, you have," she protested. And he had: like when they had all worked on a rape case together, a year back.

"Perhaps, but I've slept since then," he countered. "So enlighten me. If you don't 'see' something in Nick, why is this bothering you so much?"

This wasn't what Sara wanted to do, either.

She closed her eyes and thought back. Back since she had arrived at the LVPD. Back when she'd first seen Nick.

* * *

_The phones ringing in the background were constant. Much as she loved the work, Sara Sidle did NOT like the constant noise._

_ There was a piece of paper in her right hand as she strolled past. A list. Naming the CSIs whose team she would soon be joining. She'd already seen Gil Grissom, and so she'd inked a check mark in by his name. Now, she just had to find Catherine Willows, Warrick Brown, and a Nicholas Stokes._

_ She wouldn't know it until later, but it was him she saw first. Sitting on the edge of a bench, out in the waiting area. His face was dripping wet. He was hunched over, and his eyes were red, like he'd been crying a while. His hands dripped on the floor, clasped tightly together as if he was really trying to hold it together. His line of vision was turned downwards._

_ She didn't think much of him as she passed. Her first assignment was to find and assist Catherine Willows. On the Holly Briggs case. And she'd already gotten lost on the way back to the PD, shortly after Gil Grissom had announced they were packing up and going._

_ She thought more of the man in front of her when he looked up in her direction and forced a smile of some kind of halfhearted greeting. She just about stopped in her tracks, actually..._

_ The sun falling on him in his green shirt and dark blue jeans reminded her of a painting. Not one she'd ever seen before, but one she was certain must exist somewhere. It was his eyes..._

_ Not that she didn't notice the rolling muscles in his arms. His deep chest. His smile. His black hair. His strong-looking neck. It was just his eyes that had captured her._

_ Dark-looking in the lighting, and moving between hers with a mixture of polite chivalry and some kind of anguish. She slowed in her walking a bit. Staring..._

_ But then his eyebrows furrowed a bit in her peripheral vision, and REMINDED her that she was staring._

_ "Can I help you, ma'am?"_

_ He was from Texas. His voice was full of it. It was also a charming mixture of high-pitched and deep. It sent shivers through her that were fortunately NOT visible._

_ They did make it out when she replied with, "Uh... no, thank you." And she smiled. "I think I'm going the right way."_

_ He also smiled... And then she kept walking._

_ But she couldn't resist looking back when she had gone a little further down the hallway away from him._

_ He had hunched back down and covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. His head was shaking back and forth, and he was muttering to himself something about his failures._

_ Curious though she was, she looked away from his sadness and inhaled a deep breath. _Best not to get involved_, she reminded herself in her thoughts. _Probably never see him again.

_ Catherine Willows would be close by, anyway... and she was already late._

* * *

In the present, she opened her eyes again with a weary sigh.

But the story she told Grissom was a different one. "Did you know Nick and I like to take walks?"

Grissom looked from side to side, clearly not sure if he'd heard that right or not. "What?" he asked a few moments later.

"Nick and I sometimes take walks after work," said Sara. "In the streets. People watching, bird watching... even star watching, one night."

She smiled to herself with the memories of them laying together on the grass in her mind. His baseball cap coming haphazardly off his head, and him being too tired to care at the moment. Anyway...

"That night, I'd been having a-a pretty bad day, let's call it..." She looked at the pamphlet she was thumbing through. "Nick, of course, picked up on it. He offered to take me for a walk after work, and I said 'yes', so..." and she looked back up, "we went. He had a blanket in the back seat of his car. He carried it with. He took me to a park, spread it out... We laid on it and he pointed out some constellations with a little guide he'd had from a trip to a museum on a day off."

Grissom leaned back in his chair, and that look came on his face that he wore whenever he was being thoughtful.

Sara ignored it. "I got upset again, listening to him talk about them... because I'd been remembering all day a memory. A bad memory..." She looked up again, but there were no tears in her eyes, as she'd expected there would be. "I told Nick a little about it, the quick version... and he put an arm around me and told me a story about a bad memory of his own, a similar one... to make me feel better."

She stopped, and looked at her hands by the pamphlet. Again, just staring...

"I got cold, at one point. The wind was blowing. He... He wrapped the blanket up around us both. He sang something to me."

NOW there were tears.

"I fell asleep there. Just like that... Listening to his heart beating."

She looked back up at Grissom, much happier even in her own mind.

He resting his chin on his folded hands in a gesture that was very much unlike him. "How romantic," he teased.

Sara looked away with a sudden realization of what she was doing. If there was anybody she needed to be telling this story too, it probably wasn't good that she was telling Grissom. She wiped the remaining tears from her eyes and cheeks.

"You know..." said Grissom, "...maybe you don't 'see' anything in him now..." he stood up, and began shuffling through some of the clutter on his desk, "...consciously... but I bet you would if you looked in him a little closer."

The expression he leveled her with then was very knowing. Infuriatingly so, in fact.

He leaned forward and covered one of her hands with one of his. "There may be something there, Sara," he whispered. "Something between the two of you that you might be glad is there." He removed his hand and drug the small trashcan over to the desk with his foot. "If you admit to yourself that you want it..."

Sara scratched her throat. _You don't get it, Grissom_, she thought. _Again..._

"Now, come on," encouraged Grissom. "Help me clean out this desk. It's getting bad enough, I'll pay you out of my own pocket. And it may help take your mind off Nick." He looked over his glasses at her. "However you may think of him."

Sara grinned... genuinely and widely... and did just that.

"I'm holding you to that," she promised warningly. "Paying me for cleaning your desk out, you know..."

"Oh, I know you will," replied Grissom. "I wouldn't have offered it if I hadn't known."

"Good," was all Sara said.

And then they continued on in companionable silence.


	7. Something More to this Case

Catherine walked towards the interrogation room with all the presence of a woman on a mission.

A mission that was momentarily obstructed by Brass. "Hey, Catherine." He stepped out in front of her with a cautionary arm. "I've got something for you."

Catherine stopped and looked at him expectantly.

"I just wanted you to know, I had a bad feeling about this case. I did some undercover work." He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody had heard him.

"You?" asked Catherine with a grin. "You did some undercover work, Jim?"

"Don't look so surprised," bantered Brass. "But, anyway... I went to Crest. I spoke with the secretary: Claire, it was written on her name tag. Told him I was a friend of 'Archie's'," he went on with an air quote. "Anyway, she told me all kinds of stuff. Stuff you might want to know before you interview this woman again."

Now Catherine was genuinely intrigued. "Stuff like what?"

"Like that the Crest CEO, Greg, was out of town at the same time as Ginger Gracie."

Catherine shook her head, and ran her hands tiredly over her face and through her hair. "Yes. Yes, that's consistent with our findings."

"Oh, really?" asked Brass. "What'd you find?"

"The DNA on her suitcases?"

"Mm hmm."

"All male."

Brass stared.

"Yeah. All a match to the Crest CEO."

They both looked to the interrogation room behind Brass. There was no one else in the halls but them. For once, it was completely silent in the LVPD HQ, save for the hum of the vents.

"Then she lied to me about that, too. Unless he lied to her..."

"What do you mean?" asked Catherine.

"Well, Claire told me that her boss had gone to another Crest building, somewhere else in the country," replied Brass.

"You're right," said Catherine. "He could've lied to her. But she could've lied to you, too."

"Mm hmm," agreed Brass. "I think I might want to go back there, and... tell her the whole truth. See if she would come in for questioning willingly."

"Better hope to God she does," said Catherine. "If not, there's absolutely nothing in this case that points to her at all. No way to get a warrant."

"Yeah, unfortunately." Brass started to walk away, but stopped suddenly, and looked back to Catherine. "I just got a feeling. Like there's something more to this case we're not seeing."

She nodded. "I do, too. Be careful, Jim."

"I definitely will. You, too, Catherine. And play it safe with this woman. Try not to tip our hand."

He turned, and proceeded out the door.

Catherine watched him go. "I'm on it," she said, to nobody in particular. Just herself...

Then SHE turned, and proceeded towards the interrogation room.

_To be continued..._


End file.
